Eucalyptus
by Haddyskelly
Summary: Kyle has returned home from boarding school in Britain and he feels like he's finally becoming a man, but will this new thing in his life put that to the test?  Credit to "Eucalyptus" by Murray Bail for the inspiration.
1. Chapter 1

WARNING: Rather AU, names used for unnamed characters, historical events used in a personified way, and adult themes.

(I'm silly for not putting this in the first chapter earlier, but whatever). The first two chapters are short, I know. Due to this being my first FF being posted on here I don't feel like I should go all out straight away only to have no viewers. So, tell me what you think, and by those results I'll see if I'll be continuing this story further on this site - I'm quite excited for it, actually.

I would also like to give credit to "Eucalyptus" by Murray Bail which started my inspiration for this story and is hence named after. It helped me with a lot of my descriptions, too.

This story will revolve around Australia's point of view, and include other characters such as New Zealand, England/Uk and an OC of mine who represents Native Australia – Kyle's grandmother.  
I do not know yet if I should bring in the fact that they're nations . . . please tell me what you think I should do in that aspect!

Thank you.

* * *

The bush. Yes, let's start with the bush – is a landscape that shapes Australia into the world renowned country that it is, and has been since European settlers landed upon it an odd two-hundred years ago. There is a reason for this. For one, it takes hold of almost all the land which isn't desert or urban, but secondly, it owns such a romantic, unique power all of its own. It isn't just a collection of trees or marsupials or decaying forest floor, it _is_ Australia. Its natural and exclusive landscape.

Many, many things include the Australian landscape that is the bush. I could continue this story on the nature of the magpies that nest there, or perhaps the choking fires and floods, or maybe even the wombat who likes to eat roots, shoots and leaves, but no. Instead I'm going to revolve this story around one other magnificence that gives Australia its name . . .

The old gum tree.

Now, when I say gum tree, I hope you do realise that I'm speaking of a family of hundreds of species of no precise number. And when I say gum tree, I really mean the Eucalypt (_Eucalyptus Globulus_).  
Eucalypt trees are not just subjected to the bush – no, oh no. Through the thousands of years of battling the continent and its diversity you can name just about any part of Australia and its climate only to find a species of Eucalypt that has managed to evolve itself to suit such a place. From the snow to the desert, you will find a gum tree.

It is rather romantic, isn't it? Well, depending on how you put it. Let's begin with the Eucalypt, _desertorum, _with its common name the 'Hooked Mallee'. Its leaf slides into a slender hook, and it can usually be found in the semi-arid parts of the country's interior.  
The very word _desert-or-um_ gives you the mental image, trailing back to the more or less bleaker version of the Australian landscape and from there, giving a practically straight line onto what most see as the national character. All those seedlings of the soul and larynx, which have their origins rooted in being belted around by droughts, bushfires, smelly sheep and so on; and let's not forget the isolation, the exhausted shapeless woman, the crude language, the always wide horizon, and the flies.  
It's those circumstances which have been responsible for all the dry, hard-luck stories which have been told around campfires and on paper. All that was once upon a time interesting, but irrelevant here.

So, yes . . . romantic! Or I guess you just have to have the right sense of humour.

Anyway, there's something unattractive, unhealthy even, about _Eucalyptus desertorum. _It's more like a bush than a tree; has hardly a trunk at all: just several stems sprouting at ground level, stunted and itchy-looking.  
So, yes. I could go on forever holding up favourites or returning to botanical names which possess almost the right resonance or offer some sort of short summary that sums them up, if such a thing were possible, but I may as well get to the point.

Once upon a time there was a boy . . . What? There's nothing wrong with that. It may not be the most original way to begin, I admit, but has been tried and proven over time which should count for something – it suggests something of value, a deep impulse about to be answered and whole range of possibilities about to be set down.

There was once a boy who lived on a property to the South-West of New South Wales with his grandmother. He was a simple boy, nothing particularly special to the casual viewer, but he had seen the ways of the country like no man ever had before.  
He had just returned from his schooling in Britain to the Land of the Lucky. He was home.


	2. Chapter 2

To say that he had _finished_ school, however, would be an overstatement – even if, in his mind, it did not stray from the truth at all. He had finished school for he was never going to return. Just because he still had another two years and eight months before he finished his compulsory, legal schooling meant nothing. It was as simple as that and nothing would change his mind otherwise.  
So, he decided that with some determined persuading in his behaviour the school he attended would agree that he had finished, too.

Indeed, you guessed it. He had been kicked out. Or not so much as kicked out as being given permission to finally leave, which is what he saw from his perspective.

His "older brother", however, was not so convinced.  
"Kyle, you little bastard!" Arthur would curse. "This is the third time now, shithead! Just how many boarding schools do I have to send you to before I can be sure that you're finally getting the education that you need?"  
"Damn the lot of you," Kyle would say in return, and that was usually all he would say. Pride? No. He just knew all too well that saying anything more would give him more than one hit with that cane of the Englishman's.

I think it's only fair that we have a bit of an explanation of Arthur, Kyle's "older brother". After all, he shapes much of this story later on.

As I have stated already, he is English – or British, to be more precise. His history with Kyle is clouded, but I will say no more than that in that area for now. All you need to know is that to Kyle's knowledge, he had been "adopted" by Arthur, in a way. It's a rather confusing relationship. Physically, they aren't very different in age. No more than ten years? And yet legally Arthur was Kyle's father.  
To both them, though, they were no more than brothers.

When Kyle was very young – long before he can remember – his parents had died, or so he had been told. He was left in the care of his grandmother who had become old, weary, and needed help in raising a young boy. This is where Arthur had come along, sweeping young Kyle up into his arms and eventually taking him away at the age of nine to Britain to be educated to be a proper gentleman. It wasn't uncommon for Arthur to scold Kyle's grandmother, Kylie, telling her that she had raised him to be rebellious and indecent.  
As you can imagine this did not impress Kyle in the slightest. His grandmother had cared for him from the start. Arthur had not.  
Even so, it was Arthur who was always in charge. He visited a few times a year to Kylie's farm in the bush and made sure things were kept in order.

Kyle was the not the only person Arthur had found and tried to raise, or the first – there were several others, in which Kyle was lucky to have met more than once or twice. Kyle didn't get this trait in Arthur. It seemed that he loved to go around and raise children that weren't his, and yet despised it. Each one lived in a different country – They were all distant siblings in which he had practically no relation to.

But there was always Arthur. Dear big brother Arthur.

* * *

"Kyle! _Kyle!_"

The Australian boy did his best to ignore the calls as he stood in his gentlemen's suit under the shade of a Scribbly Gum tree – another Eucalypt. Actually, this particular common name for the tree is the name for a variety of Eucalypts, but this particular one is the _Eucalyptus signata, _with typical blotchy white bark, scattered with scribbles which isn't unusual for the Scribbly Gums. The "scribbles" are due to the tunnels made by the larvae of the Scribbly Gum Moth (_Ogmograptis scribula_) and follow the insect's life cycle. Eggs are laid between layers of old and new bark. The larvae burrow into the new bark and, as the old bark falls away, the trails are revealed.

The song of a magpie drowned out the sigh of the boy as he let his bare toes wriggle into the soil beneath the leaves and bark of the forest floor. Kyle could feel the life of his land flow through his bare skin and her silent breathing soothed his heart. He smiled; he had missed this so much.

With a step forward he wrapped his healthy arms around the trunk of the Scribbly Gum, letting his body stretch in a hug. This tree was particular to him, for many years ago his grandmother told him that it was his tree and when his arms grew long enough so that his hands could grasp each other firmly on the other side, he would be a man.  
To Kyle's disappointment he could not yet feel his hands touch.  
"Hrng!" He grunted with one last stretch.  
Ah! There we are. He felt the very tips of his middle fingers brush briefly.

"Kyle!"  
The voice was directly behind him now and he was snapped from his peaceful trance as he felt a hand slap down upon his right shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

It was Arthur, of course. Damn.

"You've been neglecting your chores. Again."  
Kyle spun around on his boot cladded heels, simultaneously brushing way the paler hand from his shoulder. Their eyes met, eyes that matched. It was physical qualities like these that they both shared so acutely that a stranger could rightly presume they were related.  
That was all a load of rubbish to Kyle, though. Just coincidences.

The younger boy's eyes lowered to the empty space beside the elder's left hand – the one in which held that all too familiar horse switch, the bloody cane's best mate. He did not care to look at him.  
"Right," he muttered with reluctant obedience. "I'll get to it."  
"Good," Arthur said with finality. "Do your duties before sundown. By then I want you to be cleaned up and ready to help your grandmother with tea."  
"Yes, sir."  
The Englishman turned from his brother, striding on between the trees towards his horse that was tied beside Kyle's own. Kyle's eyes moved back up once he was no longer being watched and he observed quietly as they other rode away to leave him alone once more.  
He took a moment to just sit and watch. Sitting and watching was his speciality at times like this, by himself. It may not appear that a boy as boisterous and outgoing with company as Kyle could favour silence in nature most of all, but it was the case.

Kyle was upon a modest hill which took descent in front of him sharply enough that he had to bend his neck to see the roots of where it started, like a cliff. That is, if all the gum trees didn't cloud that view. This was not the side that he would climb up or down upon, but it was always the side he planted himself at to be alone. You could see for kilometres without end from up there, which calmed him, and of course this space was where his single Scribbly Gum lived in its ignorant, tree bliss.  
The land took on a grey-blue, geological camel-look on its horizon. Slowly rearing to green-brown, casual tors, calloused and blotched with shadows, rock and foliage which appeared to sway in the heat with an overwhelming air of patience. At the bottom of Kyle's hill a khaki river hugged along it's plunging side, shaded by that of mostly River Red Gums (_Eucalyptus camaldulensis_), a grand tree that has proved iconic to Australia. It plays an important role upon river banks, holding the soil and preventing flooding. Its varying white to grey to red-brown bark is smooth and sheds in long ribbons – its leaves broad at the base before tapering at the tip. Both the River Red Gums and the river have proved refuge to Kyle during the Summer, which is rather unforgiving while working outside on the property. The heat makes one weary. Sleepy, even.

* * *

Silver light slanted through and onto the motionless trunks, as if coming from narrow windows. The quiet was deafening – where had the birds gone? Such an atmosphere deserves respect, like a library or cathedral, for the even the smallest scraping noise can disturb the peace and trample soft feelings: unique feelings of obscure wonder that can only grow in places such as these. From this, Ella unconsciously continued her way on tiptoe.

This area was a foreign place yet it was just as familiar as the last hill, which made Ella consider turning back. However, something on the ground beneath a tree caught her eye.  
At first she thought that it was just a bundle of clothing probably neglected by that of a traveller or someone skinny dipping in the nearby river, but then contours of flesh came into view. A body was wearing the clothes.  
By now the undergrowth and trees were simply backdrops in Ella's mind.  
It was a man . . . or a boy, really – he couldn't have been out of his teen years – lying in the shade. A boy! Out here? That's unusual and something her conscious told her she shouldn't be a part of.  
On the point of marching back to her house, however, she instead took another two steps. She remained very still for a while, a few minutes odd, and nothing around her changed. What if he was dead? She took another couple of steps. He may have been asleep and if that was the case she would see who he was. She wanted to see his face.  
It turns out his face was half-covered by elbow and drenched in shade. To see his face Ella would have to get up close – she hesitated, and then squatted.  
She was close enough to touch him now.  
His skin was young and healthy but worn by the weather and the sun. It was very natural and masculine, being darker than her own. She noticed that his clothes were of quite good quality but worn loosely and rather carelessly. She assumed that he was forced to wear such clothes, as she was to her own dresses and gowns.  
As Ella watched, his lips moved. "He must be dreaming," she whispered aloud. What would a boy, out here and under a tree, dream about? It made her wonder.  
On further examination Ella noticed that most of the visible areas of the boy's skin were roughed up – in a sense that it was calloused, spotted, dirty or scarred. Considering the bodies of men most of them have scars. They tend to accumulate them. Naturally they're _worn_ by men, almost like how women wear jewellery. To carry a scar is to carry a story. The very suggestion can extend a person.  
Ella was watching a rather dominant mark across the boy's nose, a completely straight tear, when an eye beside it opened and considered her.  
Pale green-lime was the eye. Under the circumstances, riddled as they were with chance – and harsh light and filtered shade – it was the eye colour Ella expected. They matched her own.  
Yet he remained stationary, not even shifting the elbow. It was as if – out here, practically in the middle of nowhere – he was lying in bed.  
To her own surprise she spoke first. "What are you napping out here for?"  
"And who might you be?"  
"That doesn't matter." Ella stood up. He was being smart. Brushing imaginary twigs and leaves from her cotton dress she considered leaving, but then he sat up. He really wasn't much older than she was – three years at best. He may have been eighteen, but no more.  
"I opened my eyes just then, and instead of leaves or stars I saw freckled, toffee pearl."  
Ella didn't really know what he was talking about. She made as if to go. "You were talking in your sleep."  
"Interesting. What'd I say?"  
"Someone's name."  
He grinned. Ella could tell it was genuine and natural for him to do so.  
Ella then began wonder just what he was doing all the way out here. Now that she looked she could see his horse nearby. Did he live around here? She knew of no place within a few hours distance. Maybe he was from the town.  
Frowning to herself she recalled her grandfather warning her about men and the way they used words. So far this one had hardly said a thing. When she stole a glance at him he wasn't even looking in her direction. He had his head turned, absorbed in something else. It almost irritated her that he felt that he could just casually sit around as he pleased, and yet at the same time she could feel the spreading comfort at the way they each allowed without difficulty a silence to open between them.  
No sooner had this registered before she felt annoyed – somewhat defensive. She didn't want to be open to this stranger and she wanted it to show, without quite knowing why.  
"Why don't you have a seat? Either that or I'll get up. I can't have you towering over me, that doesn't make much sense."  
Without waiting for a reply he stood up anyway, which encouraged a very faint smile from Ella.  
Once again he looked away, like he had something on his mind.  
"You don't happen to have the time on you?"  
"It was half past noon when I left. That was about an hour ago."  
". . . Fuck. Rightio."  
Now the boy had turned away – he definitely had something on his mind. His body language almost appeared like he had dismissed her, leaving her there like she was just another tree, nothing more. It was incredibly rude. There wasn't anyone else within a mile of them. Now his eyes and even his skin took on a new light, appearing rather out of place in the glare.  
Ella was going to let him know how she felt by walking off, but then she saw to her amazement that he, too, was striding away towards his horse in the other direction, leaving her beneath the Scribbly Gum.  
They both left the tree. Ella had no interest to see him again.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello, everyone! It has been a long time hasn't it? I haven't given up on these stories I'll have you know. But I write when I like, and it's just now at the end of my last college year that I'm gaining inspiration again.

After reading through the last chapters of this story I realised just how many spelling and grammatical errors are in those previous chapters . . . I apologise. I'll edit them sometime soon.

I feel like I need to classify that this story is set in the early 20th century. I tried portraying that indirectly but I don't think it's getting through affectively.

Enjoy! I'll probably be updating again soon.

* * *

The forrestiana _(E__ucalyptus forrestian__a)_, otherwise known as the 'fuchsia gum', is a short and ornamental eucalypt. In Western Australia people grow them in gardens for the splash of maranello-red flowers.  
Like _desetorum _as previously mentioned, it's short. Short enough for it to be damned in some circles as a _shrub._

Many times during the evening Kyle was tempted to mention the girl of freckled, toffee pearl, and sometimes even parted his lips to do so, but he always decided against it and stopped himself short.

"You were late finishing your chores today," Arthur directed at Kyle as he sat down with the other two at the table. His tone wasn't frustrated, but matter-of-fact.  
"Yeah."  
"And why was that?"  
Kyle didn't reply.  
"Are you deaf, boy? Answer me."  
"I fell asleep," Kyle confessed.  
"You-?" Arthur began, but stopped himself with a sharp exhale through his nose.  
"Hold out your hand."  
"No."  
"Hold out your hand, boy!" Now Arthur's voice was raised.  
"Please, not at the dinner table, please . . ." Kylie whispered, but Arthur ignored her.  
Kyle reluctantly obeyed and flinched when he received a firm _crack! _across his knuckles.  
_Fuck.  
_What kind of man brings his discipline cane to the dinner table, anyway?  
The sensation burnt fiercely hot before tingling into numbness. A welt raised on the initially red mark.  
"Next time, I will beat the laziness out of you completely."  
Kyle said nothing and brooded for the rest of dinner. Arthur wouldn't be able to do this for much longer – he was growing into a man. He couldn't be treated like a child anymore. He deserved some more dignity, right?  
. . . Right?  
But the matter of it was that he wasn't an adult. Not just yet.

Every day he would continue to put his arms around the scribbly gum. Someday soon, he would be strong and mature enough to take care of himself, his grandmother, and the farm alone. But for the time being, Kyle felt a strange smugness to have a secret now, as if it were a private, spiteful protest for his independence.

Kyle and his grandmother's knees knocked due to their close proximity sitting at the dining table – no, it was used as a dining table, but it was too small to be a true one. Inconspicuously, Kyle reached under the table and placed his undisciplined hand on her lower thigh. She looked to him, and they shared an implicit moment.  
Kyle thought that briefly he saw her black eyes glimmer, but he wasn't sure.

The forrestiana did not usually grow in Kyle's home area in New South Wales, but it did stand out rather independently in his botanical book of native flora. This is because it reminded him of his grandmother: beautiful, but undermined. Used. It was small, oh so small, like Kylie's repeatedly crushed spirit.  
And like Kylie with humanity, the forrestiana was often disregarded by many as a 'true' tree.

That evening while Kyle cleaned the dishes he listened as Kylie and Arthur argued in another room. Kylie was brave to do so. Did you know that Aboriginals, let alone women, had no rights in this time? They were literally considered under the same category as animals. Kyle swallowed as he heard the feud end with the usual loud smack.

Silence.

When Kyle showered later that night he remained under the water until it ran cold and bit into him like a thousand frozen mouths.


End file.
